


The Silent Street

by StarSpray



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Back to Middle-Earth Month, Ficlet, Gen, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 12:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: Faramir stops before the Hall of Stewards on an errand in Rath Dínen.





	The Silent Street

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Back to Middle-earth Month Bingo for the prompt "I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him" on the In the Words of Shakespeare card.

Rath Dínen was one of the few places in Minas Tirith untouched by the battle—at least at first glance. The only sound as Faramir walked down the street was that of his own boots on the stone, echoing off of stone buildings and tombs and monuments. Behind him, out of sight and hearing, the citadel and city were a flurry of activity. Those who had fled before the battle were returning home, and preparations were being made for the return of the king to claim his own.

There was only one thing they needed that none but the Steward could retrieve. The Winged Crown had sat upon the tomb of the last king Eärnur for nearly one thousand years, placed there by Faramir's own forefather.

But before he arrived at Eärnur's tomb, Faramir came to the charred pile of rubble that had once been the Hall of Stewards. He stopped before it, gazing at the blackened stones. Some work had been done to clear them away, and his father's remains, such as could be found, were placed in a casket where the pyre had been. The other tombs had been uncovered, and were little damaged. But no other work had been done, or would be done for some time. Repairs to the houses of the living were more important than any splendid tomb.

He did not clearly remember coming here before. Ecthelion had died when he was still a babe in arms, and of his father's final madness he remembered only snatches of heat and harsh voices, but whether those were from life or from dreams he could not say. Perhaps it was both. He would have preferred to remember nothing at all. Or better—that his father had never looked into the palantír at all. He could see it sitting beside the casket, covered in a heavy cloth. The king, perhaps, would come for it later.

Faramir sighed as he looked on the casket that held Denethor's remains, and turned away. Let the dead keep themselves. His concern was for the living.


End file.
